


play on the edges

by Leyenn



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Episode Tag, F/M, Shaving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-15
Updated: 2011-05-15
Packaged: 2017-10-19 10:51:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/200035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leyenn/pseuds/Leyenn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the <a href="http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/">Kink Bingo Round 3 amnesty</a>, square: <i>shaving/depilation</i>. Gil Grissom, Sara Sidle, and a straight razor. (Post-ep for <i>Fallen Idols</i>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	play on the edges

"Intimately," he murmurs, and Sara gives him the tiniest of smiles, and then he's tilting his head back, closing his eyes, and the world narrows to her warm hand and the sharp kiss of the straight razor against his skin. He can imagine someone who isn't Sara would think he'd be thinking about the case they just wrapped; about love, and trust, and those other intangible, important things.

They'd be wrong.

Right now, in the moment, all he can think about is how it all feels: the humid air of the bathroom, mixing with the cooler air-conditioned breeze through the half-open door; the scent of Sara's soap combined with that of his shampoo; the weight of the towel across his shoulder; the sense memory of the bristled shaving brush, in her hand, delicately rubbing foam into his beard. The minty scent and slight menthol tingle on his skin. The light pressure of her fingertips on his scalp and her palm against his neck, gently angling his head, holding him precisely where she wants him.

The blade scrapes lightly a second time, and Sara's thumb runs along the shell of his ear, the very softest of touches. He's relaxed enough that he doesn't twitch, but for just a moment he does want to shiver at the sensation.

"Mm."

Even with his eyes closed, he can hear her smile. "Stay still."

He restrains his own smile. "Mm." Another smooth run of the blade, followed along by the warm brush of air on suddenly bare skin, and he moves his hands from the cabinet behind him to rest on her hips. Sara shifts her balance a little, widens her stance; he can feel her breathing, the faint movement of it under his hands.

The first full, long, slow stroke of the blade across the hollow of his cheek makes him breath out hard: she clucks her tongue, and her fingers slide behind his head to hold him still.

"Gil," she says, soft sultry tone, and he swallows, because that does nothing to diffuse the sensuality of the moment. His hands slide up her sides almost of their own accord; stroking her in return, absently exploring, needing to touch her.

Sara laughs softly, that same exact tone, and makes another long, careful stroke of the blade. "Don't distract me," she murmurs, and with a little effort, he stills his hands.

Another long stroke and she twists away from him: he opens his eyes and straightens his neck slowly, in time to catch sight of her rinsing the blade. She looks up, into the mirror, and he meets her eyes and gives her a small, tender smile.

She returns it for a long moment before breaking her gaze away, and he watches her run a careful finger down the flat of the blade to clean it before she turns back to him.

"Does this feel good?" Her voice is still sultry, but teasing as well, as her hand comes up to touch his neck again. He settles his own hands back around her waist, and this time he keeps his eyes open, gently pulls her in closer to her work.

"Yes."

"Good," she murmurs, leans into him a little, and slides the razor along the line of his jaw once, twice, three times, each time a little further. "Amazing, the things that turn people on," but she doesn't sound surprised. She's watching her own hand, which he not only appreciates as the object of her task, but there's a deep concentration there that he finds incredibly sexy on her. He always has.

"You turn me on," he says quietly, trying not to move too much. Sara smiles.

"The feeling's mutual." She tips his chin up, and he holds himself perfectly still as sharp metal makes contact again, right across the width of his carotid artery. One slow, but brief stroke of the blade and it's gone, and his eyes slip closed, his fingers tightening on her hips as this time, he lets the shiver overtake him.

She must notice: he can tell she has when she presses a kiss to the newly-smooth skin of his neck, and he has to fight a second shudder. "Sara..."

"Now I know why you never seem able to decide," she says, her eyes sparkling, and he raises his eyebrows.

"'Decide'?"

"Beard..." she ghosts her touch across the cream-swathed side of his face, "or no beard," and she runs a sensual fingertip along the smooth skin of his jaw. The word _hypersensitive_ comes into his mind, because he feels that way, having her touch him like that, so soon after the gentle bite of the razor.

"We should do this more often," she murmurs. He swallows, imagining it. Knowing without having to hear it spelled out that she's offering to do this any time he wants her to.

He slides a hand around behind her back and teases her shirt up, just far enough to slide his fingers underneath. Her skin is warm, and his fingers fit perfectly in the hollow of her spine. "Yes, we should."

She smiles, and puts a single fingertip to his lips, and raises the blade again.

He does as he's told, keeping still and staying quiet as the razor kisses his upper lip for the first time, then the second, and again; a slow caress of the blade from one side to the other. He can't decide if it's more sensual to watch, to see her so focused on him, or to just close his eyes and luxuriate in the sensation.

In the end he does both: watches her until she tips his chin up again and then lets his eyes slip closed to revel in how it feels as the blade glides up his neck, flicks delicately over the curve of his chin. She leans in again; he feels the soft press of her breasts only a moment before the softer brush of her lips, a sensuous tease against his skin.

He growls under his breath. "Sara..."

He can feel her wicked smile. "Mmm?"

"Temptress," he murmurs. She laughs, but she keeps her weight against him even while she's angling his head to the side - to the right this time, and he can't help twitching briefly as her thumb brushes across his pulse point.

"Stay _still_ ," she murmurs back, and for just a moment she's pressing the razor harder against his neck, and he has to try very hard not swallow against the sudden erotic charge that leaps from the edge of the blade right to his groin.

Her eyes flash, amusement and pleasure and that fierceness he loves in her: she draws the blade up, desperately slow, and only when it finally flicks away from his skin can he move again, breathe again, shiver again - and he does, and tightens his hands on her. Sara taps a playful fingertip against his lips, runs it slowly down his bare chin, and disentangles herself from his hands without a word to move back to the sink.

He shifts on his feet as he watches her rinse the blade a second time - his hands itch to touch her, to take hold and pull her back against him and strip her slowly; kiss her mouth, slide inside her, feel her hands and the weight of her against him...

Sara turns, holding the razor high and out of the way, and this time when she rests her palm against his cheek it's to kiss him, soft and lazy, with a wicked smile he can taste on her lips. He slides his hands back under her shirt and further this time, up her back, spreading his palms across her spine. She pulls back, rubs her thumb lightly over his lips, and sets the blade gently against his cheek. He closes his eyes on her smile and lets the feeling overtake him again.

Long minutes of warm silence, then one final stroke of the razor, a long, slow lick of blade against skin, and she's done: then it's the soft touch of her fingers against his cheek, running along the line of his jaw, stroking his neck - checking her handiwork, and he smiles.

He opens his eyes to her holding the razor away, free hand peeling his own off her hip with a smile. She turns back to the sink again and this time he follows her, taking the single step between them and fitting himself smoothly against her back. Sliding his hands around her waist. Pressing a first, beardless kiss to the curve of her neck, his skin hypersensitive to the feel of hers, so soft and warm...

Sara leans back, into him, and this time it's her head tipped back, her throat exposed to him without a moment of hesitation.

"Thank you," he murmurs, lifting his eyes to meet hers.

In the mirror, her lips twitch in a smile. She reaches back, and her fingertips rake lightly across his cheek: he nips at her neck, and this time it's Sara who shivers delightfully against him.

He lifts his head, then, and for a moment catches full sight of them in the mirror - he and Sara, together, alone, his arms around her waist and his face newly shaved, Sara reaching back with her fingers hooked comfortably behind his neck and the other hand resting on his own, and all framed against a backdrop of butterflies. His reflection has a thin streak of foam left across one cheek; hers, a spot of white high on her cheekbone. He smiles and reaches around to capture it with a fingertip. She smiles, too, and her eyes sparkle, dark and deep and watching him just the same.

"Turn around," he breathes in her ear. She drops her hand from his neck and turns; he presses up against her, hard, traps her against the sink as her hands stroke up his chest. She pushes the towel off his shoulder, runs her hands back down and tugs his t-shirt up. Her hands are as bold and confident on his body as they are in the evidence lab; he loves it, being handled by her.

When his shirt is off, he takes the time to pat down his cheeks and chin with it and then tosses it aside. Sara flashes him a brief, beautiful smile and pulls her shirt off over her head to join his on the floor. His hands drop to her waistband: his thumbs brush her bare hips, she pushes up to give him room, and then he has her pants open and sliding to the floor and he can _smell_ her, the want so sharp in his chest that he can taste it.

"Help me up," she says, voice throaty, and puts her hands on the surround palms down, long fingers curling over the edge as she takes her own weight. He grins and lifts her: one push and she's at the perfect height, and her eyes go wide as he pulls her forward in the same motion and pushes into her, one deep, hard stroke enough to make his head spin.

Surprised or not, she takes his lead and runs with it: wraps her legs around him, pulling him deeper, and she's all around him and now he's lost - she's so wet, and hot, and beautiful, and then she takes his freshly shaved face in her hands, warm palms and fingertips and gently scratching nails, and it's all he could want, all he could ever need.

The trust, he thinks, goes both ways, and there is no more intimate trust than this.

*


End file.
